


La Legge con Brio

by LitRaptor42



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Gen, Lawyers, alcohol use, holy shit i love soft revenge-less damaged killian, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitRaptor42/pseuds/LitRaptor42
Summary: Attorney Emma Swan wanders into a bar on the worst night of her life, dazed at having lost a highly emotional deportation case. Several drinks later, she barely notices the face of the bartender who coaxes her into a cab, and she hardly expects to see him again. But it turns out they keep meeting... and meeting... and meeting... and pretty soon, Emma realizes it may actually have been the BEST night of her life.A lawyer!Emma x bartender!Killian AU.





	1. Prologue

The first time she meets him, it’s only been thirty-five minutes since she lost her very first removal hearing.

Emma wanders out of the light rail station, dazed, and slouches into the first bar she sees, slumping onto a barstool. “Laphroaig, please. Neat. You can leave the tab open,” she says briefly, fishing a credit card from her wallet. Doesn’t even look at the bartender’s face: just waits until he’s taken the card and retreated, then lets her head fall into her hand, staring at the wall full of liquors.

The noise of the crowded bar surrounds her, a comforting blanket of cacophony and senseless jabber. She can’t get the client’s expression out of her head. There were no tears on the woman’s face; just a horrified blankness, reflected in Emma’s own heart. If she had squeezed more hours out of her weekend, found more case law or statutes to cite in her brief, would it have helped?  Was she too soft, too hard, too arrogant, too meek in front of the judge? Emma plays over her own words again and again, until she’s fighting back tears of frustration at her inability to remember them perfectly. It feels like someone has taken calipers to her heart and crushed it within her chest.

“Here’s your scotch, love,” says a gentle voice, and she hears the sound of her drink being set gently on the bar, the clink of the glass muffled beneath by a square paper napkin.

She mumbles a thanks and reaches out for it, still not even sparing the bartender a glance. Tosses the drink back, taps the rocks glass lightly on the bar to indicate she wants another, continues staring blankly into the middle distance. After twelve months of fighting, her client is finally being deported: what else matters?

An hour (and four scotches) later, after having tried to explain the case to a woman unlucky enough to sit next to her at the bar, Emma finds herself sobbing into her hands, desultorily wiping the tears away with the sleeves of her suit jacket before they can drip down onto the bar. Comforting hands urge her to rise; her heel slips, her ankle turning painfully to drop her to the floor with a crash, and she’s suddenly lying on the cool tile, gasps of surprise around her. Then a pair of strong arms lift her up, help her stagger forward and out of the bar.

“Come on, lass—let’s find you a cab home,” she hears a man’s voice say, low and sympathetic. Before she knows it, she’s being helped into the back of an Uber, her vision spinning.

And as she’s waking up the next morning, mouth fuzzy with regret and shame, she realizes she didn’t even tip the bartender, much less thank him.


	2. Oh No

The second time she encounters him, she’s just been picked up by the fourth biggest law firm in the city.

A half-dozen of her best girl friends start a group chat, clamoring that a celebration needs to occur. Before long, they’re all showing up downtown and waltzing her into the central public square to celebrate, skyscrapers looming cheerfully around them.

They bundle her over to a table just inside the breezy patio of a square-side bar, Regina orders a round of shots, and then the questions begin. “So what practice area? Something fast and frenzied, like insurance defense litigation? Corporate contracts? Med-mal?”  Anna demands, her face alight with excitement.

Emma shakes her head. “Family, estate, and limited jurisdiction stuff,” she says confidently, and tips back a shot. With a great exhale, the vapor of tequila burning through her sinuses, she adds, “Mainly the family shit that existing clients need a lawyer for—kid gets a DUI, dad needs a will and a trust, sister has a terrible ex and wants custody of the kids. That kind of thing.”

“Ugh,” comments Regina, making a face. “That sounds dreadfully dull.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us can spend our days hobnobbing with criminals,” Emma shoots back, with an innocent look, and Belle giggles. Regina just sniffs to hide her own smirk, tossing her immaculately trimmed bob of wavy curls, and sips her martini.

Mary Margaret, already tipsy on half a margarita, briefly dips her head to lay her cheek on Emma’s shoulder, sighing happily. “I’m just so glad for you, sweetie,” she says dreamily. “You really needed to catch a break.”

“Ooh, and speaking of which,” Elsa says slyly, jumping in, “what are you gonna be making, Emma?”

Emma rolls her eyes fondly. “That,” she answers dryly, amusement bubbling up, “would be the story of nacho.”

Elsa frowns. “Nacho?”

Emma grins smugly. “Nacho business!” she exclaims, to a chorus of groans and laughter. Elsa mock-pouts, until Emma reaches across the table and playfully pats her friend’s hand, smiling at her. To discuss salaries is usually pretty unprofessional. But Elsa is the only cheerfully destitute one amongst them, a mere staff attorney for the same local resettlement agency Emma used to work for, too, and which Mary Margaret occasionally helps out on a pro bono basis. No one minds if she moans about her poor wages.

Gazing around at her friends, Emma reflects that of all of them, she’s probably going to be earning the most money now. Even Regina, with her many high-profile criminal clients, will be edged out by a Big Law salary.  _ Oh, the irony _ , she thinks, with some pride.

Their waitress appears, bearing a fresh tray of drinks, and is greeted by a rowdy cheer.  Emma grabs another tequila shot and greedily downs it, chomping into the lime to tamp down the burn. She’s already pleasantly buzzed; one of her favorite songs is playing on the bar’s speakers, and she finds herself moving to the beat, dipping her head and moving her hips.

Anna whoops loudly, pumping her fist in the air; and before long, a few them are dancing around the table. Emma can’t remember the last time she felt so happy. Her feet carrying her, she sways slowly in a circle, blissfully light… and then she freezes, uncertain recognition stalling her where she stands.

The bartender nearest to them is leaned forward, sweeping up a spill from near the rail with bar towel. His black button-up is casually open at the neck, allowing a silver pendant necklace to swing in front of a pleasantly dark-pelted expanse of bosom. It’s the chest hair that brings Emma up short, her breath catching in her throat. And as the man stands up straight, his eyes turn briefly in her direction, and she catches a glimpse of startling electric blue, distressingly familiar.

She whirls back to the table, her cheeks burning. Belle, still calmly sitting on her stool and sipping her martini, catches Emma’s aggrieved expression.  “What is it?” she asks, concerned. “Something wrong with your tequila?”

Emma shakes her head, mortified, putting a hand to her forehead. “No, no,” she says in a low voice. “I… I think I might have gotten really, really drunk here one time. At any rate, um… I think I know the bartender.”

Anna is in on the conversation by this point, instantly zeroing in on Emma-related drama. She glances across the room, her brows shooting up. “Jeez, Emma! I wish  _ I _ knew him,” she remarks slyly, and makes a purring noise. Belle snorts with laughter, and Elsa begins turning bright pink, shaking her head.

Against her will, Emma finds herself stealing another furtive look around the bar. The memories are coming back now, in little flashes—yes, this is the same watering hole she’d wandered into that horrible day four months ago, after Fatima Al-Hadid’s hearing.  With all the windows thrown open to the summer light and the patio wide open, most of the chatting customers outdoors, she hardly recognized it. Last time it had been dim, crowded with guests, and decorated with strings of garish holiday lights.

The bartender, though… she sneaks a peek over her shoulder, cringing. He’s calmly doing dishes now, one sleeve rolled up to his elbow to reveal a muscular, dark-thatched arm as he dips glasses in and out of the sinks, casually gripping the handles of three massive beer steins with one hand as if they weigh nothing. She doesn’t remember the hair on his arms—probably because his sleeves were buttoned last time—but she distinctly recalls falling against him on her way out the door, the faint, pleasant scent of his cologne enveloping her as the hairs on his chest tickle her nose. And she knows that they’re strong arms; gentle arms.

“Oh, lord,” Emma says faintly, and sighs.

* * *

He looks up with a friendly smile and raised brows as she slides onto a barstool.  “Can I get you something, love?” he asks pleasantly.

Emma’s mouth goes dry; she remembers that voice, too, a velvety low tenor. “Um,” she says, and what little bravery she’d summoned dies inside her, shriveling up in the presence of his affable gaze. “Patron silver?”

“You got it,” is his simple response. She sits at the bar and sweats, vaguely watching the sports game playing on a television above. 

At last, as he plunks the shotglass and lime down in front of her, she takes a breath and regathers her courage, trying to smile. “This may sound weird, but…” she begins nervously, fingering the glass; and as his firm brows shoot up again, she lets out a little laugh. “I was here one night a few months back, really drunk, and… I think you helped me get home. Called a cab, and all that. So… I just wanted to say thanks.”

He shrugs self-consciously and makes a moue, the expression then twisting into a rueful grin.  _ Oh, God,  _ she thinks dimly, horrified.  _ That’s his job. He must do it all the time. _

But to her surprise, he chuckles, shaking his head. The light glimmers from his single teardrop earring as it swings. “Yes, I think I remember,” he says. “Bad day at the office. Something about… losing a trial, right?”

Her stomach sinks, with a sick feeling of disbelief. “Sort of,” she answers, uncomfortable. “I was trying to keep a client from getting deported. Didn’t go so well.”

His expression becomes more serious then, the clean lines of his mouth forming an ‘o’ of understanding. “Sorry to hear that,” he says quietly. And to her astonishment, he offers a sweet, crooked smile, so honest that she’s almost embarrassed for him.

Hastily, she licks the webbing between left thumb and fingers and applies the salt shaker, then takes up the shotglass and the lime. “Well, it’s over now,” she says roughly, with a shrug. Salt, shot, bite the lime. How on earth does he remember her? That horrible night was nearly half a year past. “And I’ve won a few since then, so at least there’s that.”

He nods, eyes still intent on her. As with all of the best bartenders, his hands have stayed busy, polishing one of the taps to their left, but there’s no doubt he’s paying attention. “Emma,” she adds suddenly, offering her own hand.

He smiles and lets the taps be to take her offered palm with a firm grasp. “Killian,” he replies simply.

Emma finds herself returning the smile, her cheeks inexplicably burning. “Well. Thanks again, Killian,” she says, looking down at the bar and awkwardly rattling the shotglass. “Can you just… add this to our tab?”

“Sure thing,” he responds easily.

Emma’s legs seem to float beneath her as she makes her way back to the ladies’ table.  Mary Margaret and Lily are mock-bickering over the menu, trying to decide what appetizers to order, while Regina is in the middle of a heated debate with Ashley over a new bill introduced in the state house.

But Belle, watching on with amusement, greets her with another sweet smile. “So?” she says innocently, trying to hide the smile. “Did you get his number?”

Emma sighs with exasperation, and slips into the chair next to her friend. “I didn’t go over to hit on him,” she says, glowering.

Belle just gives her a knowing look. “Emma,” she says patiently. “Come on. I know what you look like when you fancy someone.”

Emma can’t exactly deny it—Belle was there for the whole long Graham debacle—but still feels herself turning an even brighter shade of red. She has no idea whether the bartender has even looked her way once since she walked away, yet somehow it feels like the back of her head is burning.

“Yeah, well,” she remarks, grumpy. “It’s not like I’m gonna have time to date anymore.”


	3. Blind Date? More Like Blind GRATE

The next time she talks to him, she’s on a date. A blind date, to be specific.

“So, what are we thinking?” her companion asks cheerfully, rubbing his hands together.  Emma is instantly irritated: she knows it’s unfair to dislike someone purely for a personal mannerism, but that particular gesture reminds her of a former foster parent.

As such, she hates it. And him, kind of.

She shrugs in response, moody.  They’ve just exited the theatre— _Peter and the Starcatcher_ ; not one of her favorites, but then again, she’d made the mistake of letting a guy with the ridiculous first name of ‘Walsh’ pick it—and are wandering towards the business district.

“Somewhere with good cocktails, I guess,” she says at last.

He laughs and suggests the name of a bar that sounds vaguely familiar; Emma just shrugs again, following him down the block. A relatively good-looking man of about her own age, Walsh (God, she’s never going to get over that weird name) Hagerman comes recommended by Regina. Smart guy, great lawyer, maybe even a rising star in the litigation scene, her friend said.

What Regina never mentioned was that he was a _terrible_ conversationalist.

Emma wonders briefly if her own suspicion of Regina’s tastes in men has tainted her perception of the date, or if Walsh is truly as dull as he comes off.  At any rate, he’s obviously making good money, and is slim and tall in his well-tailored suit and expensive shoes. She might as well find out more before breaking off the night, right?

They wait at a crosswalk, then dash across four lanes of traffic. It obviously rained while they were in the theatre, light gleaming from puddles in the road, its asphalt slick and glimmering. Walsh surreptitiously tries to take her arm, and Emma just as subtly drifts sideways, pulling her elbow away from his hand.

He’s polite about it, at least, forcing a smile that looks only slightly hurt. They’re entering the main public square, and Emma looks up to see the vertical marquee of the bar her companion mentioned a few minutes earlier. And her gut clenches as she realizes she knows it.

“I…” she says, slowing, but doesn’t continue.

Walsh pauses and turns to her, eyes curious. “What?”

Emma shifts from one foot to another and opens her mouth to tell him that they shouldn’t go to Crescent City; that it’s too loud and they won’t be able to have a decent conversation; that the baseball game will probably be on and she hates sports; or that she doesn’t like the food. But none of the lies will leave her tongue. So at last she just shakes her head and starts walking again.

She’s surprised when Walsh walks straight up to the bar and politely pulls out one of the high stools for her to climb onto, before assuming his own. “Quicker to get drinks up here,” he assures her, and raises a commanding hand to summon service.

To Emma’s relief, the bartender who walks toward them is a young woman with bright red stripes in her dark hair, her arms colorful with sleeve tattoos and her ears and face punctuated by a number of piercings. “Evening. What can I get you?” she asks cheerfully.  Her nametag is handwritten, swirly letters reading _Ruby_.

Emma sees the other bartender—the man she knows only as Killian—down at the other end of the bar, laughing and chatting with a pair of customers.  Walsh orders some kind of fancy cocktail. When the bartender turns to her with brows politely raised, Emma says simply, “Talisker, neat. Thanks.”

“And can we get some menus, please?” her companion adds, his forehead creased as if he’s offended that the requested items weren’t already sitting in place for them.

They chat politely as the menus are provided. He offers a brief summary of his career: commercial real estate and corporate contracts with the largest firm in the city, bigger even than hers. Emma reciprocates, giving him a run-through of the two months that she’s spent at Gallagher Smith.

“And before that?” Walsh asks. He shoots a cold glance at their bartender, who’s still halfway down the bar, shaking something in a tin.

Emma shrugs, uncomfortable. “I was… a staff attorney. For a little resettlement agency out in Manchester Hills,” she explains. “I liked the work, but it didn’t pay the rent very well.”

“I don’t imagine,” her companion returns dryly. He raises a brow as a bartender—not the young woman, but Killian—comes in their direction.

Emma wants to groan as Killian, wearing a pleased expression, stops in front of them. He takes a napkin from the stand-up caddy and lightly sets a rocks glass on it, right in front of her.

“Your Scotch, lass,” Killian says, and slips her a wink before retreating.

There’s a brief pause, then Walsh snorts and shakes his head. “Looks like cute girls get better service around here,” he says sarcastically.

She clenches her teeth, his impatient tone striking a little zing of heat down her throat. “Only if they order something easy, like plain liquor in a glass,” she shoots back, equally acerbic.

Surprising her again, Walsh laughs, and dips his head in acknowledgement. “I guess so,” he replies with a smile. She notices that he has very even, very white teeth, obviously the result of expensive orthodontics. “You’re funny, Emma, you know that?” he says generously. “Not a lot of girls that I’ve dated have such a good sense of humor.”

This time Emma suppresses the urge to roll her eyes as a small voice in her mind wails, _Seriously, another one of those men-are-naturally-funny-but-women-aren’t assholes? What were you thinking, Regina?_

She bites down on the internal complaints and forces a smile, looking down at her menu. Last time she was here, her friends did all the ordering, and she’d only eaten a few bites of the appetizers, just enough to stay decently tipsy without embarrassing herself. “Want to split some fried green tomatoes?” she offers.

Her companion doesn’t even respond, just makes a face. After a moment he declares, “I’m thinking… the watermelon and _chevré_ salad. With the shrimp… no, the petit filet on top.”  

Emma just manages not to gag at the idea of eating steak and watermelon in the same dish, but shrugs politely. What he wants to eat is his business: she’s eyeballing the lobster mac and cheese. _I’ll be damned if I’ll eat like a rabbit just to please a man_ , she thinks furiously.

Their first bartender, Ruby, returns carefully bearing a hideously milky green drink in a martini glass, garnished neatly with a sugared lemon peel. “Your honeydew-ginger special, sir,” she announces, beaming.  Emma can’t help but smile: the bartender is wearing a sleeveless ( _All the better to display her ink,_ Emma thinks with amusement) royal purple t-shirt with a Mardi Gras logo splashed across the front. She makes quite a colorful contrast to the other bartender, who is once more in a demure black button-up.

Walsh picks up the drink, sniffs, sips, and makes a little moue. To Emma’s annoyance, he doesn’t even thank the bartender before setting it back down. “So, I’m going to have the watermelon and goat cheese salad, with filet on top,” he says, holding the menu out before him as if scanning a tremendously displeasing medical document, and his brows furrow. “But hold the radishes, please, I think that would make it too bitter.”

Ruby just nods and takes a pen and pad from her apron, writing down the order. Before she can even ask for Emma’s order, Walsh turns to Emma with an ingratiating smile. “What about you, hon?” he enquires.

Once again, she grits her teeth and manages to keep from snapping back at him. _Just hold out until the end of dinner, then let him pick up the check_ , a voice inside cautions, diplomatic and smug. But another voice inside her is demanding to know why her dates _always_ go like this.

“I want some fried green tomatoes,” she informs the bartender with a tense grin, “and the lobster mac and cheese.”

* * *

She lasts almost half an hour longer. Since she’s already spilt the information about her job, it’s clear that Walsh has no further interest in her personal life. Or her interests. He waxes rhapsodic for several minutes on the virtues of a Roth IRA over a 401K, and reprimands her for choosing only to invest in the latter. Then he spouts off a few litigation stories, high-tempered fights over mass foreclosures and redevelopments. At last he gives, in great detail, the specifics of his most recent real estate closing, some kind of multi-million-dollar apartment complex out in the east end of the city.

Emma finds herself sitting back and listening, more out of sheer disgust than anything else. She remembers living in one of those same hovels out east that he’s now reviling: admittedly, it _had_ been a cinderblock dump of apartments inhabited mainly by fixed-income seniors and welfare recipients. But she’d been grateful to score a perfectly functional little single-bedroom there during college, and afterwards for a brief time while working and saving up for law school. It’s long since been knocked down, the site bulldozed: and, apparently, replaced by one of Walsh’s new, modern luxury apartment buildings.

“And you know,” he’s saying confidently, “the papers complain about it being gentrification, that we’re pushing out poor people. But what do they want—for the neighborhoods to just keep getting worse and worse?  Besides I’m from New York, I know what gentrification _really_ looks like.”

Taking another monstrous bite of her (absolutely delectable) mac and cheese and chasing it down with the last dregs of her Scotch, Emma nods vigorously, as if rapt in attention, and Walsh continues in the same vein. He’s just finished his second martini, and it’s showing in his red cheeks and sparking eyes.

Their bartender, Killian this time, reappears. He gives Emma a faint smile, glancing over at Walsh. “Another Scotch, love?” he asks.

She’s barely managed to nod, before her companion frowns. “I’ll take a refill, too,” he says, pointedly offering up his empty glass.

Killian doesn’t even blink, his expression untempered. “Of course, sir,” he replies mildly. “The honeydew-ginger martini, right?”

“That’s the one,” Walsh says, somewhat sardonically; and belatedly, Emma realizes that he’s actually _drunk_ , his consonants starting to become loose. “And can you mix it yourself this time? Inkerbell over there is a bit slow on the shaker,” he adds.

The bartender opens his mouth slightly for a moment, but finally nods and walks away, with a quick, inscrutable glance back at Emma herself.  She’s busy trying to recall whether she’s ever met a lawyer who can get drunk on two martinis, when her companion’s rude words jar her.

“Inkerbell?” she repeats, astonished.

Walsh laughs: and it’s not a nice laugh. “Yeah, because of the…” he makes a face and gestures to his arms. “Nice enough girl, but that’s kind of unprofessional.”

Then he shakes his head with a sigh, looking at the two bartenders, who are now conferring near the register. “Shame about him, too. Seems like a decent guy.”

Emma, taken aback, just stares at him as he trails off, as if expecting her to immediately agree. “Uh… shame about what?” she asks, bewildered.

Her companion shrugs. “The hand,” he explains, with a grotesque twirl of his own fingers. “Come to think of it, I’ll be interested to see if he can even shake that drink himself. I’m a pretty experienced mixologist, from back in my Alpha Tau days, and it takes a fair bit of dexterity to handle a chilled tin on a hot night like this.”

The light doesn’t click on in Emma’s brain until she also glances over at Killian: who is, in fact, holding the tin and glass aloft with both hands, stone-faced as he shakes the drink. At some point when she was last here, she _had_ noticed that his left hand was a cunning facsimile of the real thing, the base of its brace hidden by a leather cuff-style watch on his wrist, with only the stiffness of the fingers giving away the secret. But he uses the prosthetic almost as deftly as a real limb: and she hadn’t given it a second thought at the time, having been far more preoccupied with his role in rescuing her drunk ass on that terrible night back in December.

Ruby— _Inkerbell_ , Emma thinks absently—returns, her heavily lipsticked mouth pressed into a civil sort of smile, and sets a nearly-full rocks glass in front of Emma. “Your drink will be right up. Sir,” she says to Walsh, and Emma hears the open resentment in the latter word. “Will the two of you be wanting anything else?”

And this time, Emma gets in the first word. “No, thank you. This will be it for the night,” she says calmly, the words sounding enormously loud in her own ears as anger finally rushes up from her breast. “And I’ll be having my drink at the other end of the bar.  If Mr. Hagerman wants to pick up his half of the tab, that’s fine: if not, just bring the check to me.”

She plucks up her drink from the bar, and hops off the barstool, settling her heels beneath her and draping her purse over her shoulder. “Good-night, Walsh,” she says to him coldly, satisfied at the look of amazed offense stealing across his flushed face. “Please don’t bother calling me.”

With that, she stalks away, not bothering to look back. She arrows for a seat in between two occupied barstools, so he’ll have no chance to try and slither in beside her. Then she calmly plunks her Scotch onto the bar and mounts the stool with as much dignity as she can muster.

Emma stares straight ahead into the pub mirror. Her reflection’s eyes are shining a fierce green, points of red burning on the corners of her cheeks; yet somehow she’s perfectly serene, lips lightly compressed and brows even.  She hears raised voices from the other end of the bar: she lifts her drink and takes a healthy swig, the liquor burning a line of smoke down her throat as she continues staring intently at her reflection and trying to block out the distinct sound of Walsh’s voice, raised shrill with insults.

And then the bar becomes quiet again. A figure comes in between Emma and her reflection, making her start. It’s Killian, his handsome face looking terribly grave as he gently sets the nasty lime-green martini in front of her.

“Want it, love?” he asks softly, eyes perusing her face. His tone is joking, but his expression is anything but, suffused with simultaneous concern and irritation.

Emma feels her lips trembling as she manages to smile, and she shakes her head, taking another swallow of Scotch. “Nah, too sugary,” she says, and takes a deep breath, fighting against the fury threatening to send her pelting out the door after that uppity bastard.

Ruby appears at her co-worker’s side, scowling, hands planted on her narrow hips. “He just split. Wouldn’t pay a dime,” she informs Emma hotly. “You want us to call the police, sweetheart?”

Emma shakes her head again, exhaling explosively as she gulps down the remainder of the expensive whisky, and drops the glass to the bar with a decisive thud. “Nope,” she responds. “I’ll happily pay the check if it gets rid of him. Sorry, by the way,” she adds, wincing. “He was a complete asshole, wasn’t he?”

Killian snorts, and Ruby laughs. “Yeah, he seemed like a bit of a jerk,” the young woman responds, and reaches forward with slim fingers to pat Emma’s hand. “Bad date, huh?”

Emma shakes her head with a rueful, bitter chuckle, and digs into her purse for a pair of fifties. “I think I'd rather have gone on a date with a flying monkey,” she admits, making them both laugh aloud this time.

Ruby saunters off with the money, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Killian swallows and drums his fingers on the rail, then offers Emma another sympathetic, crooked little smile. And for whatever reason, it spurs her to speak again.

“Nobody insults my favorite bartender and gets a second date,” she informs him.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wants to bite her tongue. But he doesn’t seem perturbed, breaking into a wider grin that brings out a sweet little dimple in one lean cheek. “Favorite bartender, eh?” he asks, amused. “Well, I’ll have to tell Ruby that she’s made a new friend.”

Emma opens her mouth, ready to correct him. It doesn’t seem worthwhile to make the situation more awkward, though; so she just nods agreeably, fingering the cash in her jacket pocket and vowing to leave a huge tip for both of them.

Later, as she’s walking back to her car, she finds herself distractedly wondering (against her own better judgment) what a date with her favorite bartender— _No, not Ruby: you!_ —would be like. “Probably wouldn’t even spend the whole date bragging,” she mutters, and pulls her coat closer around herself, eyeing the low clouds overhead and hoping it doesn’t start pouring before she can make it to the garage.


	4. In Rain, Stay Sane, Ride the Bus And Not the Train

The next time she runs into him, they’re at a bus stop, and it’s absolutely pissing down rain.

Emma raises her umbrella a bit so she can better see where she’s walking; but a gust of wind catches it and almost blows the stupid thing inside-out. Cursing, she lowers the edge of the umbrella again and adjusts her grip, peeping awkwardly from beneath it to avoid swiping passersby.

_ At least I remembered to wear rain boots to work _ , she thinks, grumpy, and slows her pace as she reaches the Court Street bus stop. The little shelter is already jammed with people, so she slides into the crowds at the curb, craning her neck to see the electronic sign with bus arrival times.

Another ten minutes until her bus comes—or at least until the bus with the shortest route to her house comes. Emma melts back into the sidewalk crowd with a sigh and cowers under her umbrella, trying to position it overhead so her pantyhose-clad legs don’t get completely soaked, and wishing she hadn’t stayed so damn late at work again.  _ I need to start keeping a damn bottle in my drawer for nights like this _ ….

She digs her phone out of her pockets and stands there for about five minutes, scrolling aimlessly through the news and social media to waste time. The rain slackens briefly, and she raises up the edge to get a peek at the sky. That’s when she sees him, hunched against the wind, his face turned momentarily in her direction as he leans forward, eyes searching oncoming traffic and hands shoved into his pockets. No umbrella, clad in nothing more than jeans and the same button-up shirt he probably wore to work all day. The rain has plastered his dark hair to his face and ears and neck.

Emma finds herself gravitating in his direction, and he looks over just as the sky lets loose once more, rain roaring down so loudly that she can barely make her voice heard above the din. “Want to share?” she shouts. Raises up her umbrella so it’s perched over both of their heads.

Her favorite bartender grins down at her, casting a wry glance up at the sky. “Sure—thanks!” Killian yells back, and crouches down slightly, edging closer so they’re shoulder-to-shoulder.

There’s a brief silence, punctuated only by the rumbles of thunder from above. “So, which bus are you waiting for?” Emma asks, pitching her voice high.

“The 62A,” he bellows, tone equally exaggerated to match the volume of the weather. “You?”

The answer takes Emma aback, but she recovers herself. “Same, actually. I hop off in Prince’s Square!”

“Really?” Killian asks loudly, interested. “Whereabouts? I’m over on Blackridge, near that little oasis of apartments in between the hipster coffee shop and the scummy bar, what’s-it-called. Tommy’s.”

To her amazement, Emma knows exactly where that is, and says as much. “I’m on Victoria Street, further down towards the actual Square,” she adds, still shouting.

“Nice. Quite posh,” he comments, flashing a cheeky grin.

Strange, Emma thinks faintly, how someone can look so gorgeous even when bedraggled and soaking wet. The rain has plastered his button-up shirt to his body, too, showing the outlines of hard muscles in his upper arms. He hasn’t bothered to wear any kind of undershirt, the curves of chest and nipples plainly visible under the thin fabric.

They manage to keep up the conversation for a bit longer, discussing their neighborhood: he’s been in that end of town for almost ten years, while she’s owned her house for less than a year, having rented in the south slopes before that. The downpour finally softens a little, to no more than a pleasant drumming overhead.  “So, you always ride this bus, or do you sometimes catch the commuter?” he asks, in a normal voice. “If I had a regular schedule, I’d certainly use the busway routes more often.”

Emma bites her lip. “Actually, I usually drive. My car’s in the shop right now. Waste of money and gas, I know, living as close to the city as I do,” she admits. “But… on the days when I work crazy late like this, I just want to get home, you know?”

He nods, understanding; and suddenly his eyes light up, looking behind her. Emma turns to see the bright headlights of a bus barreling down the road: their bus. 

The crowd collectively scuttles back from the curb as the huge wheels dash filthy water all over the first twelve inches of the sidewalk. Then several people rush forward to the front door, everyone yanking bus passes and cash from pockets and purses.

As she hastily folds up her umbrella, Emma is somehow unsurprised to find herself queuing in line right in front of Killian. She nudges her way down the crammed aisle, finding an open overhead hand-strap, and he wedges in next to her, reaching up to grab the rail itself.

“Days like this, I’m glad I’m not wearing heels,” she says breathlessly, as the bus lurches off. He laughs easily.

The interior of the bus is frigid, the air conditioning cranked to combat the outrageously tropical heat and humidity of the nighttime storm. After a few minutes of swaying back and forth to maintain her balance, Emma feels herself beginning to shiver. She reminds herself that it’s better than sweating, and hugs her blazer closer to her body.

Her predicament, however, apparently does not escape Killian’s notice. “Chilly?” he asks. After a brief pause, he tentatively holds out his free arm in invitation.

Emma opens her mouth to retort something. But the look of sheepish innocence on his face suggests that he wouldn’t normally offer, any more than she would usually accept. With a dramatic grumble she hesitantly shuffles toward him, putting her arm around his waist. 

His skin is warm beneath his damp shirt, blissfully so, and without thinking she presses closer.  Some part of her brain is screaming that Killian is a perfect stranger, that she doesn’t even know his last name or anything other than that he’s a bartender who lives near her, and that this is totally inappropriate. But then he offers a pained, hopeful little smile, blue eyes crinkling with pleasure, and Emma feels her cheeks flush, her lips curving to return the expression.

They remain glued to one another for the remainder of the bus ride. Every time the voice in Emma’s brain starts yelling in panic, she crushes it by reminding it that four feet are more stable than two, anyway. And finally, they’ve reached Prince’s Square, crossing Montgomery Avenue past the pizza shop and the grimy auto repair lot. 

“Well, this is my stop,” she says reluctantly, and peels herself away from him, wincing at the resulting blast of cool air that meets her now-unprotected midsection.

Killian nods. “Nice seeing you again,” he says, offering one last crooked smile.

Emma takes a deep breath, looking towards the door and making ready to sandwich her way back off the bus. But she turns to him one last time. “By the way… Swan. My name’s Emma Swan,” she blurts.

He’s frozen for a moment, mouth open. At last he turns a deep crimson color and grins. “And I’m Jones, Killian Jones,” he answers, with a friendly dip of the head.

The bus driver announces Victoria Street, and Emma finally has to turn away, hastily shoving her way forward. When she jumps off the bus, she stands on the curb for a moment longer to watch the bus roar away in a belch of diesel fumes. The summer night finally emerges overhead, stars peeking weakly from behind the clouds. And as she slowly tramps down the street toward her house, Emma finds herself glancing northwards, to Blackridge Street, wondering if she might ever find an excuse to walk through the apartments up that way.


	5. Kitten Smitten

The next time she sees him… well, he calls her. For help.

Emma all but kicks open her front door and slouches inside, pulling her laptop bag from her shoulder with a groan. She unwedges her feet from the uncomfortable ballet flats she’d donned to drive home and kicks them into the small pile of shoes near the door. 

_ What a waste of a day _ , she thinks miserably, and collapses face-first onto the couch in the dark living room. Her thighs and pelvic area feel as if they’re aflame, pain striking down towards her knees and up into her back. She wonders briefly if she has the energy to go back out and buy the good stuff, or if she’ll just take another pair of ibuprofen tablets before diving into a bottle.

After a moment she hears a ping from inside her purse; the insistent double chime of a new email arriving on her phone. Emma moans into the pillow, praying dimly that it’s not her boss, and sits up.

Even better—a voicemail from her work phone, from a strange number. Emma unlocks her cell and opens the audio file, cursing whoever thought the voicemail relay system was a good idea. Most likely it’s that moronic divorce client, arguing once again that she doesn’t want to settle, that her ex is never going to get the car, et cetera.

To her surprise, when she presses Play, it’s a hesitant male voice that speaks. “ _ Ah… hi, Swan. Emma, I-I mean. This is Killian—you know, from the bus. The bar. Jones. Ah… _ ”

He trails off for a moment, fumbling, and Emma finds herself breaking into a smile. He sounds so nervous, not at all like the serene presence she’s used to seeing, and she wonders briefly if he’s been arrested. 

“God, I hope this isn’t his one phone call,” she mutters to herself, rising from the couch and gravitating into the kitchen. If it is, she’ll refer him straight to Regina.

But he continues, recovering himself. “ _ Sorry to bother you like this. I Googled your name, and found your work profile, and it had your number. I… _ ” he sighs; then she hears a distinct inhalation, as if he’s gathering his courage. “ _ You’re the only person I know who lives close by, and I was wondering if whenever you get home, or if you’re around tonight, you might help me look for my cat. She’s gone missing. God, this is so embarrassing. _ ”

Emma absently pulls a bottle of wine from the rack as she listens, feeling her face grow warm. Killian stammers for a bit longer, then rattles off a string of numbers, a phone number where she can reach him. She repeats it under her breath a couple of times, then reaches up to the refrigerator door and plucks off a dry-erase marker to jot the digits down on her magnetic whiteboard.

“ _ Thanks. Sorry, again _ ,” the voicemail says, hurriedly. “ _ Bye _ .” And the recording stops.

Shaking her head, Emma snaps the marker back into its mount and closes the email app on her phone, thinking for a minute. She looks out the big bay window in front; night is just falling, the trees and housetops dark against a pale blue sky. 

She’d intended on going for a quick walk, maybe down to the tennis courts and back, then enjoying a glass of wine or two in the shower, and snoozing in front of the tube until bedtime. But her cramps have barely gotten started yet, and rescuing a cat sounds like it might be diverting.

Emma takes a breath and pulls open the drawer to find a corkscrew.  The bottle opened and a glass poured, she opens up the keypad on her phone, then enters the numbers hastily scribbled onto the whiteboard. She pauses one last time, wondering if she’s being too naïve. Should she really be contacting a near-stranger this late at night, just because he’s lost a cat?

Then she looks around at the dark interior of her house. It’s not really that large of a home, just a three-bedroom with an unfinished basement and an attic that’s creepy as hell. She’s been slowly furnishing it over the last year, trying to add her own touches here and there. But at the moment it seems huge and hopelessly empty, echoing with her loneliness. 

_ Maybe I should get a pet, too _ , she thinks with bitter amusement, takes a healthy swig of wine, and decisively hits dial.

It rings several times. She briefly wonders if he found the cat already. Then on the sixth or seventh ring, just as Emma is absolutely sure she’s about to be punted into voicemail, there’s a click. 

“ ’ullo?” says Killian’s voice. A gulp for breath.

“Hi, Killian. It’s Emma,” she says, taking another swig of wine and trudging towards the stairs. The thick carpet muffles her steps as she climbs up to her bedroom, taking off her sweat-damp suit jacket and unbuttoning her blouse as she goes. “I got your voicemail. Have you found your cat yet?”

A brief laugh from the other end of the line, nervous and breathless. “Yes—I-I mean no. I’m so sorry to bother you,” he stammers. “I… you must be so busy, I shouldn’t have called you at work…”

He sounds so thoroughly embarrassed and miserable that she laughs, then hastily clears her throat. “No worries. I actually just got home,” she admits, stepping onto the soft carpeting of her bedroom and crossing to the dresser to set down her wine. 

The light has faded fast, leaving the room dim and shadowed. She can barely make out her own features in the mirror. Emma  slings her jacket onto the bed, and adds, “Still want some help? I need to make a quick pit stop and get changed, but I can be over in ten-ish.”

There’s a sigh, and it’s so full of profound relief and hope that her heart nearly skips a beat with pity. “Could you really? I-I mean… do you mind?” Killian asks wistfully.

It’s not remotely funny—Emma knows quite well what loss feels like, even if not for a cat that snuck out—but all the same, she can’t stop smiling. She picks up the wine glass and chugs down the rest of the cabernet. “No, I don’t mind,” she answers, and licks her lips. “It will be the first good thing I’ve done all day.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes and another glass of wine later, she’s striding down Blackridge Street, dressed to the nines in her favorite old law school t-shirt (emblazoned with the phrase "Trust Me, I'm A Law Student," surmounted by a shark) and an ancient pair of exercise pants, a pair of extra pads shoved into the left-hand pocket. She fingers the cell phone in the other pocket, looking for the big white house with the rhododendrons in the front. He’s texted her his address, too, but she hardly needs it.  Half the reason she’d bought a house in this neighborhood was because it was the rare section of town that happened to be laid out on a square grid. Three blocks south, two blocks east: easy-peasy.

Halfway down the block, a forlorn figure sits on the front steps of a white house, nearly dwarfed by the overgrown dark shrubs that brace the porch, his arms resting on top of his knees. She recognizes the long legs, the muscular shoulders, the neatly parted hair, the gleam of a single earring. But the tension in his shoulders, and the way his head sags, is totally unfamiliar.

“Hey,” Emma says in a friendly tone, and sidles toward him, her tennis shoes crunching as she crosses a patch of decorative gravel.

Killian looks up and blinks for a moment, his eyes slipping up and down to take in her casual appearance. “Yeah, I didn’t feel like getting all dolled up,” Emma admits with a smile. She doesn’t bother mentioning that her abdomen is a raging roar of cramps and she’s too bloated to bother with real pants: no sense making him feel any more like an imposition than he already plainly does. “So. What’s kitty’s name?”

He’s silent for a moment, his lips trembling. In the instant she comes within hand-shaking distance, she takes in his reddened eyes, his hunched shoulders, the fact that he’s still wearing his work clothes. 

But he levers himself up from the steps, and slides his hands into his jeans pockets self-consciously, trying to summon a smile in return.  “Jiji,” he answers, mouth twisting as he gives a one-shouldered shrug. “She’s a, uh… little black cat.”

Emma can’t help but laugh: she just watched that movie with Mary Margaret’s kids, not three weeks ago. It makes Killian grin, too, if a bit wanly. “Cute,” she remarks, scrunching her nose, and adds teasingly, “I suppose that makes you Kiki?”

The grin becomes wider, and he looks down at his shoes, rocking back a little. “Aye, that was the joke,” he replies in a soft voice. “My wife liked those films.”

The word  _ wife _ inexplicably feels like a blow to Emma’s breastbone. His use of past tense is curious, though, as is the way his voice trembled on the word. She takes a deep breath, watching as his eyes shift uncertainly back up to her. “Well,” she says at last, pleased to hear that her own voice is quite calm, “I brought a flashlight for when it gets dark. Any ideas where little Jiji is likely to be?”

Killian shakes his head, and begins slowly pacing up the sidewalk, half-turned to her. “She’s always indoors,” he explains, and once more Emma feels the pinch of pity at his grief-stricken tone. “I don’t even know how she got out: perhaps I left the door ajar when I took the trash out this morning. I just… got home from my shift, and her collar was in the middle of the kitchen, and… she was gone.”

A cool night breeze slips across Emma’s cheek, and she sighs with relief as it picks up, ruffling her hair and lessening the sticky feeling of her bare arms. It’s been a hideously hot and humid week, but the sky has been threatening rain all day. 

“Well, that means she’s probably just lost and wants to come home,” she says, aiming for a reasonable tone. “Hopefully hearing your voice will do the trick.” Her companion smiles at that, half-hearted but grateful.

They walk the streets for a while, alternately calling out the cat’s name and making kissing noises, going up one block and down another. On Tilbury Avenue, right near the crummy little dive bar, an enormous striped ginger tabby responds to their calls and trundles out from a porch to meow at them; they share a laugh as the fat old creature purrs, rubbing against their ankles before struggling to hop back up the front staircase of the house. Emma enjoys how Killian lovingly drops down into a squat and fondles the cat’s ears. It appears that he genuinely likes all cats, not just his.

Up and down, east and then west again. They spend nearly fifteen minutes combing through a children’s park, looking up the trees and through the shrubbery. As they approach Emma’s own house, one of her neighbors comes up to chat, sympathizing with Killian’s plight. “Mine get out from time to time, but they always come back,” the old woman says confidently, patting his hand. 

They walk north on Penny Street for a while, passing some of the streets they’ve already covered, trying to follow a grid. The sun has long since set, and although the streetlights have come on to illuminate the sidewalks in a sickly orange-yellow color, Emma turns on her flashlight. 

“Wish I’d thought to bring one,” Killian mutters. She can feel the despondency rolling off him in waves, the lines carving deeper into his shadowed face with every passing step.  It’s quiet in the evening gloom, so quiet that Emma would normally find herself nervously talking, trying to make conversation and get to know her companion a little better. 

But the silence, although awkward, isn’t necessarily unwelcome, especially as her wine buzz begins to fade.  He’s strung tight as a wire with grief, and she knows better than to think he called her for her skills in cat-hunting. 

Does he have so few friends that even a near-stranger will do in such a time of crisis? she wonders. His faint accent isn’t local, something from the United Kingdom, she would guess. But that means nothing: surely such a likeable, good-looking man has friends. What about Ruby, from the bar?

They crouch under hedges, stand on tiptoes to peer into backyards, still calling and kissing all the while. As they turn a corner, Emma frowns; she’s disoriented, turned around in the dark. But Killian seems to know his way, winding down an alley. His tread has become heavy, scruffing, and his hands are back in his pockets.

The alley leads out into a parking lot, cars lined up and glinting under the streetlights.  With relief, Emma recognizes the buildings as the little “oasis” of apartments Killian had mentioned when first telling her where he lived. But she swallows, her stomach sinking: they’re almost back to his house.

“Well,” he says suddenly. His quiet voice is damped further by the evening humidity. “We did a grid of the neighborhood, three blocks each way. The next step is probably putting up posters, so… I really shouldn’t keep you out any longer.”

Emma can’t make herself respond, desperate pity clawing at her heart. “It’s all right,” she finds herself saying, as they plod through the parking lot, and adds, “Sorry we haven’t found her yet. Maybe you could try that trick with the bedding and the food? Leave out whatever she sleeps on, and maybe she’ll smell her own bed and show up by morning, you know?”

Killian nods, but lets out a bitter little huff of laughter. “Well… ever since my wife died, she’s taken to sleeping on the bed with me,” he says, and sighs. “But I suppose I could pull off the top blanket, leave it out for her.”

His tone is so matter-of-fact that Emma’s immediate instinct to apologize, to tell him how awful that is, sticks in her throat. She knows nothing about his wife, though: how can she offer condolences for a woman she never met, to a man she’s only spoken to a handful of times? 

So the night remains silent around them, the dim whisper of wind underlaid by distant rumbling of motors from the busway and the scuff of their footsteps on the asphalt. She wonders if she's made his horrible night better or worse, but doesn't want to linger on the miserable suspicion that it's the latter. That her uselessness has only confirmed that his cat is gone for good.

They turn the corner and there’s his house, stark and unwelcoming pale. Emma follows him as far as the second step of the porch staircase, skimming her hand over the peeling paint of the banister, and halts uncertainly. As he approaches one of two front doors, she realizes it’s not a single-family house, but a duplex split into upper and lower units.  _ Well, duh _ , she thinks angrily, reprimanding herself for assuming he would own his own home.

He pulls his keys from his pocket, fumbles with them for a moment. She edges up the stairs a little further, trying not to notice the way his hand is trembling as he fiddles with the keys.

At last he drops them, the ring landing with an echoing clank at his feet. He leans forward with a defeated, shaky sigh, putting his hand up against the door. 

Emma creeps onto the porch, bends down, and carefully picks up the keys, holding them up.  Killian takes them without looking at her; his jaw is clenched tight, cheeks hollowed in the dim light. 

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom really quick?” she blurts, and feels her cheeks flame. “I, uh… I know I’m only a couple of blocks away, but… I'm not sure I can wait.”

It’s not even a lie: she does need to use the bathroom, just for a wholly different reason than the ubiquitous urge to pee. The cramps have long since faded, leaving behind only the uncomfortable knowledge that there might be a flood in her basement.

But her companion doesn’t say a word, just offers a tight little half-smile. He fits the key into the lock with only a brief rattle, and opens the door, gesturing in for her to precede him. Emma swallows and dips her head in thanks, then enters the hallway of the second-floor walkup. 

_ God, I hope I know what I’m doing _ , the little voice in the back of her head wonders.

* * *

When she emerges from the bathroom, feeling even more bloated and miserable and sober than before, Killian is standing at the dining room table, aimlessly flipping through a pile of mail. It’s a cramped apartment with only one bedroom, the kitchen and living room crammed into a graceless rectangle and the bathroom little more than a water closet with a sink. 

Emma hesitantly wanders over to where he’s standing, unable to help noticing the ornate matching dining set, the way the television stand and the couch are awkwardly positioned in the small breakfast nook. All the furniture seems too large, as if it used to occupy a much more spacious home.

She can see that Killian's eyes are red, but he turns to her with a grateful, genuine smile. “Thanks again for helping me look,” he says apologetically, and scratches behind his ear before admitting, “I, ah… I really needed the company.”

Emma smiles back, her heart beating too fast, making her breathless. “I know,” she says simply, glad that she wasted enough time in the bathroom to allow him to compose himself. “I guess I’d better get going… I hope you find her, though,” she offers.

He nods. There’s a moment when she thinks he might say something else, but he looks down at the table instead. His lips tighten, and he reaches slowly forward for a round breakaway collar sitting to one side. The bell on the front of the collar jingles softly as he picks it up, the tags tinkling against one another.

It’s the sound that jolts Emma. “Wait, so,” she says curiously, “when you got home, the collar was already off? Like… inside, snagged on something?”

Killian gives her an inscrutable glance, and nods again. “Hanging on a cabinet knob,” he explains, pointing toward the kitchen. “Must have slipped out of it before she escaped.”

This time it’s an idea that makes Emma breathless.  _ So she might be playing possum… _

She abruptly strides toward the kitchen, her footsteps swallowed by the soft brown carpet, and peers upwards. No, not the mounted cabinets; they’re flush with the ceiling. She bends down, looking around the base of the oven, the refrigerator, the floor cabinets. There’s a small noise of indignant protest behind her, but she ignores it.

There! In the corner, to the left of the cabinets under the sink - a small vertical gap where the dishwasher doesn’t quite meet the cabinets. Pulling out her flashlight again, she clicks it on and shines it into the darkness beneath the counter. 

“Look,” she says with excitement, pointing, and turns to find Killian frowning down over her shoulder with perturbed curiosity. 

The hole is very small, no more than three or four inches across, but Emma has lived with enough cats to know that a determined little feline could squeeze through a gap that small. “Does she have a… a favorite toy? Or treats?” she asks.

His face lightens just the tiniest bit, and he nods, turning away. Emma peers back down into the dark crawlspace. She can’t see any hint of fur or gleaming eyes, but then again, at this angle, she can’t really see much of anything except a few wires and a corrugated plastic water pipe. She finds herself smiling, thinking of the stubborn old cat at Ingrid’s house, a sleek tortoiseshell that would worm her way into the strangest places and hide out for days at a time.  _ Cats are so weird _ , she thinks fondly.

Killian appears back at her side, carrying a small bag of cat treats. Emma backs away from the cabinets, motions him forward. He drops into a squat, rattling the bag, then opening it and withdrawing a treat. 

“Hey, Jiji,” he says hoarsely, placing the treat gently on the floor. “Kitty, are you in there?”

There’s a brief, breathless silence; Emma feels her heart cracking, crestfallen and certain that she’s gotten his hopes up for nothing. But at last there’s a rustle, as of something moving within the empty space under the counter… and then, the tiniest  _ mew _ she’s ever heard.

Her companion makes a small choking noise, his shoulders drawing towards his neck, and he rattles the bag of treats again. “Come on out of there, kitty,” he says, voice thick.

And out of the gap, a small head pokes: a black nose, covered in dust; two large green eyes, innocently turned up into Killian’s face; triangular ears and fine whiskers. Emma’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes welling with tears of relief and joy.

He waits until the small cat has entirely weaved out of her hidey-hole and has crunched down the treat. Then he reaches down with gentle hands, picks her up, and wordlessly cradles her to his chest. Emma can see his breath heaving, his shoulders trembling, and suddenly he falls back to sit on the kitchen floor, bent forward.

She puts a tentative hand on his shoulder as he goes absolutely to pieces, his back shaking with silent (well, almost silent) sobs, his ears bright red. The cat has poked her head over his arm, eyes wide as if asking Emma,  _ What did I do? _

Emma grits her teeth, torn between the urge to laugh and cry, and slowly rises to her feet. She casts a glance around, then spots an empty tissue box across the room, perched atop a pile of recyclables in the same blue bin that’s in her own driveway. 

Crossing the room, she snags the box, and slowly ambles back. Killian is getting up from his spot on the floor, hastily swiping at wet eyes with his sleeve, still cradling the purring cat to his chest with the other hand. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as Emma bends down and shoves the tissue box into the small hole, blocking the entrance to the little hiding place.

“I’d probably put a brick or something in there, too, so she can’t scratch through it,” Emma offers, and tries her best to smile at him.

Killian dips his head in acknowledgement, but he looks a little dazed, not to mention colossally embarrassed.  Emma tries to think of something else to say, and finds herself wondering if she should just spare his dignity and leave right away.

But when she starts backing toward the door, he hastily says, “Wait.”  The word is slow on his tongue, and he clears his throat, taking a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he says, simply, and tries to smile. It’s not entirely a failure, although tempered somewhat by the tears still glimmering in the corners of his eyes. “God, thank you so much for helping me find her,” he adds, giving Jiji a soft jiggle. “I… I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

Emma shrugs, uncomfortable. “You don’t have to.” She pauses, then adds, “You pieced me back together when I lost my shit at your bar. I’m sort of… returning the favor.”

He shoots her a look, its meaning unambiguous:  _ That’s not the same and you know it _ . But he doesn’t speak, just swallows, looking down at the cat. The windows are open to the night breeze. Cicadas screech, and the wind rustles through shrubs down below.

At last Killian says softly, “She was… my wife’s cat. We rescued her together, but she picked Milah as her human. And last week, last Friday, was five years since she died. Milah, I mean. Bone cancer. I just got this horrible feeling, like...”

He trails off, uncertainly glancing at her and shuffling his feet. Once again, Emma doesn’t need him to speak the thought aloud. “I’m sure glad we found her,” she says with a helpless smile, and reaches up to pet the cat’s plushy head. 

The little creature is already purring, and turns her head toward Emma to accept the attention, her green eyes closed with pleasure as Emma gently scritches beneath her soft chin. Killian laughs, relaxing, and sniffles one more time, unselfconsciously wiping his nose with his sleeve. 

The sound of his laughter fills Emma with profound relief—and abruptly, she blurts, “Do you want to come to my housewarming party?”

He blinks, surprised, and raises one brow querulously, then bends down to release the cat onto the carpet. “I mean,” Emma amends hastily, “I moved in last summer, so it’s not a real housewarming party. Kind of missed that boat. But I was thinking of having some friends over on Labor Day to make up for it. You know, throw some stuff on the barbeque, beers and stuff. And I only live a couple of blocks away…?”

Emma trails off, grimacing a little as the question hangs in the air. But Killian grins now, crossing his arms, his composure nearly restored despite the redness in his eyes, the slight stuffiness reverberating from his sinuses. “I mean, as long as you’re not going to make me bartend,” he says, and shrugs.

The joke catches her off guard, and she laughs. “Aw, come on, my friends’ll tip well,” she teases.

Killian makes a little moue, rolling his eyes upwards as if considering the proposition, and shrugs. Then he looks back at her, his expression warm, wordlessly gazing at her face. And Emma realizes she has already been in this stranger’s apartment  _ way _ too long.

“I’ll, uh… send you the invite, then,” she says with a shrug, and backs towards the door again.

He nods, trailing after her slowly. In the small entryway, Emma bends and wedges her tennis shoes back on, not bothering to untie them. Her hand is on the doorknob when Killian speaks. 

“Thanks. Again,” he says. Low voice, rough, earnest.

Emma looks up and nearly staggers. His eyes brim with gratitude, spots of pink dotting his cheekbones. Arms folded tightly, shoulders hunched and eager.

But she manages to smile in response. “No problem,” she answers. After a moment, she finally whirls to slip into the stairwell, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

She takes a deep breath, then jogs quickly down the stairs and out into the night. It’s cool, the night wind pleasant and dry on her face, and she fancies she can smell fall in the air. 

_ Maybe not such a waste of a day _ , she thinks cheerfully.  _ Time for another glass of wine to celebrate. _


End file.
